Page 13 of The Player's Obsession

“Glad you’re feeling better.”

“What happened after you tripped over the vacuum?”

“He wanted to take me out to make it up to me. I’m sure he has a bazillion girls who would die for a chance to go out with him.”

“You turned him down? Have you not listened to a thing I’ve said? You need a social life.”

“I hate dating apps.”

“Everyone does, and yet, we use them anyway because meeting people is difficult.”

Especially when your brother is running with a bad crowd.

“I get it. You’re right. I can’t stay at home and expect someone to knock on the door. We’re going out to dinner, and he insisted on picking me up.”

“That’s great.” Lucinda coughs, and I figure I’d better let her rest her voice.

“I should let you rest.”

“Okay. My throat is scratchy. But call me with the details after your date.”

“I’ll probably call you to approve my outfit. I need to wear something dressy. I haven’t dressed for a date in some time.”

“Sure, we can do a video call.”

“Great, now get some sleep.”

I hang up. I realize I haven’t eaten. I take the soup out of the fridge, ladle some into a bowl, and heat it in the microwave. The ding echoes in the apartment, and I eat at the table. It’s delicious. It would be nice to have a side hustle. I’m sure it would involve paperwork, and I’d need a kitchen up to code in a business district. I can’t make more money at the moment, so I’ve cut back on expenses. It will be nice to go out to dinner as I’ve not eaten out in months. Well, since Carlo blew into town.

There’s a knock on my door.

It better not be someone selling something.I stand and walk to the door, suspiciously looking out the peephole to see who it is.

“Carlo,” I say, opening the door. “What are you doing?”

“Hi, Sis. I’m just dropping by.”

Dropping by for money is more like it. I mean, what is he doing? Casing my apartment? Looking at how thin he is, I have a sick feeling in my stomach he’s still selling drugs.

“You want some soup?”

“Thanks, I’m not hungry.” He says no, but we both know he can’t remember when he last ate.

I return to my dinner. “Sit.”

“Oh, I can’t stay, a friend drove me here. I just wanted to say hello. Do you have five bucks for gas?”

That’s not enough for gas. I have no idea what drug he’s on, but he’s having difficulty standing still. He fidgets with his hands, and his eyes dart around my small apartment. His jeans are torn and dirty. His shoelaces aren’t tied, and his jacket looks like he fished it out of a dumpster behind the Salvation Army store. It breaks my heart that he’s bottomed out. Come to think about it, I don’t remember the last time he asked how I was doing. He has no interest in my life or whom I’m dating. We never talk about anything other than his need for money. I’m beginning to feel like nothing more than an ATM.

In a word, drugs have made him self-centered. That’s how it is with addiction. I decide I can’t give him money for anything, I know he’ll use it for drugs. I can’t listen to his lies. I’m not in denial over his addiction, and I have to stop enabling him.

He’s had many opportunities to start over in life and never applied himself. He’s choosing this way of life, and it makes me sad. However, his lifestyle and drug use are taking a toll. It’s only a matter of time before he gets a hold of drugs laced with something lethal. It makes me sad watching him spiral out of control again. But if I give him money and he uses it to buy shit that kills him, it’s just as much my fault. I’m not willing to carry that burden for the rest of my life.

“No, I don’t. You should eat.”

“Aw. Come on, Sis, I just need a few bucks,” he whines.

I look him in the eye. “I love you but have nothing to give you but food. If you’re hungry, eat.”

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